


Stuttering Books - Tales of the day before yesterday

by Lilium125, RickishMorty, tanuki_mapache, Yusunaby



Series: Stuttering Books - The Serie [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Activism, Anal Sex, Angst, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fluff and Angst, Investigations, Light Angst, M/M, Military, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Shibari
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilium125/pseuds/Lilium125, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickishMorty/pseuds/RickishMorty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanuki_mapache/pseuds/tanuki_mapache, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusunaby/pseuds/Yusunaby
Summary: What happened before Stuttering Books was what we know today and Designer Morty came into Writer Rick's life?Connected to the long fic Stuttering Books, but set in the past.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Series: Stuttering Books - The Serie [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902334
Kudos: 9
Collections: Interconnected Fics from The Starry Citadel AU





	1. Shibari

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters and characters created by Dimension Tanuki, Yusunaby, RickishMorty and Lilium 125
> 
> First chapter by Dimension Tanuki  
> Illustration (not related) by Yusunaby

**Welcome DimensionTanuki to Stuttering Books!**

"Patience, skill, knowledge and a little bit of sense of beauty..." 

The soft voice breathing to the Writer Rick's ear was already too much at that point. 

"I would say that in effect Shibari is an art" 

The tattooed version of himself finished his statement with a soft bite to where he whispered,the echo of his wooden getta was the only sound while walking slowly around him. 

How they ended up like this? Writer can't recall if this was his idea or shibuya's, maybe both, but he wondered why they didn't do it before. 

Shibuya stands in front of his work in progress, writer suspended in mid air by red ropes that were meticulous tangled around his body, all knots were a piece of art by themselves, restraining all movements, hands on the back tied to the neck, legs forced to spread showing Shibuya all their secrets. 

Writer was so embarrassed for the way his body is displayed but feeling shibuya's eyes touching every intimate part with an unexplainable hunger made him feel aroused, excited to be at his friend mercy, but in contrary, that was not true; shibuya was the one at the mercy of the beauty of that body, so similar to his yet so different. 

The dark room made them forget there's a world outside, low warm lights provided by candles in an empty but elegant tatami room. Writer was at the middle of the room, even his ego was being lewd, he knew all shibuya's attention belongs to him now, his friend finds his own pleasure in pleasure him, tightening the ropes now and then, stroking slowly and carefully only with his fingertips the skin, teasing on his tights, chest and neck. 

Writer by other hand has completely surrender to the flesh needs. It was impossible Shibuya would do this with anyone else, none of his nocturnal prey was worth all this effort, he was special, Shibuya taking the time and caress to please him was sure the meaning of something. Writer wasn’t just another one. 

He was known to be reserved and vanilla, his reject to human touchhas brought him some problems, but this was in someway perfect for him, Shibuya was touching him through the ropes, worshiping him with that predatory smile, writer felt waves of a strange pleasure going and returning to his growing erection, he knows shibuya is rougher than this, he knows how aggressive his friend can be with those ropes, but still he doesn't feel as if shibuya was holding back, what he feels is that shibuya is respecting him, he can feel how he’s being delivered slowly and with patience to these new experiences, he never felt alone or pressured, shibuya was holding his hand while showing him this new world. they even have a safe word but at this peace Writer doesn’t feel the need to remember it. 

The air was polluted by incense, not too strong, even in that shibuya was being thoughtful, it wasn’t strong but it was enough to relax Writer. and the novelist was sure it had something to do about how excited he was. 

“You are enjoying it?” Shibuya woke him up with his voice again too close to his ear, teasing his hard dick with soft touches. 

“tell me, what do you feel.” 

tattoo asked licking the side of the ear several times, making writer moan, imposibilitating him to form any word, the warm tongue stimulating his most sensitive spot while his hand is barely touching his needy erection already dripping precum. 

“I can’t hear you, maybe you want me to stop” and in an instant he stopped making Writer noticeable upset “If you want me to continue talk to me” 

“... ah... C-continue...” Writer was so embarrassed but his desire for the pleasure was winning “don’t stop” his agitated voice mixed with sighs and moans was heard by Shibuya who again started to play on Writer’s ear, licking, biting an whispering praises, speaking how beautiful writer was, feeding not just his lust but his ego. 

But agan Shibuya stopped and stepped away from writer who moaned in displease “Don’t worry gorgeous, I’m just starting” he took off his loose yukata, wearing only his baggy pants, allowing his night partner to see his upper body, something rare to see his skin exposed, for someone with so many tattoos he sure keeps them for himself, and this habit makes always a nice surprise to see him like that, the oversized kimonos always makes him look skinny and thin but he’s actually more muscular and with a worked yet slender body, strong arms, it makes sense, he’s a predator after all, he needs to be strong and writer knew how lucky he is to see all that exposed skin. 

“You ready?” Shibuya both teased and asked for actual consent, his soft voice made writer shiver, looking the thinner ropes on his hands, he knew what was going to happen but he trusted him, the safe word wasn’t necessary, he nodded and shibuya approaches to his spread legs, giving him a hungry stare Shibuya started masturbating slowly the hard shaft, making sure it got lubricated with his own precum, writer arched his back as much as the restraints allowed him, tightening the knots with his own movements in consequence of his friend’s hand playing with the tip of his dick, holding the body with hispalm while slowly taping the tip, making circles with his fingertip, when Writer’s dick was already wet Shibuya started to wrap it with the slender rope, making a restrain under the balls following up through half of the shaft,making small knots, applying pressure, not much, just the necessary, at first it hurts, but Writer felt how caring and delicate Shibuya was being, that attention to his pleasure excited his mind while the restraints started excite his body. 

Shibuya looked at his art, smiling, he was devouring Writer just with his eyes, and Writer loved that. 

Tattoo approached again and started kissing Writer’s neck, licking possessive he made a trial of kisses from the collarbone to the stomach, and then to the now tied up dick, it was twitching, Shibuya surrounded it kissing his tights and hip bone, teasing the helpless rick who was now a mess of sweat and lewd moans, spasms and twitches were begging to find release through the ropes, but without any warning Shibuya started kissing the tip of Writer's dick, tender kisses followed by the warm of his tongue while massages his testicles. 

“AHh--hh-” Writer let out drowned moans, his whole body was so sensitive at this point. we wanted more he needed more, showing his needs Writer unconsciously began to move as he could his hips, sibuya hold him from the rope on his knees to avoid the swinging but giggled for how cute writer was and wanted to please him. staring at writer to the eyes he licked his fingers, without looking away he started massaging the novelist entrance, circle movements to help and relax but placing one by one 3 fingers inside him, separating them to touch the walls, stretching it and making wet noises as loud as possible, the tattooed rick kept staring like a wild tiger to writer who barely could maintain the stare. 

Shibuya was fingering him without even looking, it was amazing how well he knew that body, how experienced he was, writer felt jealous of his nocturnal victims, it wasn't the correct thing but to imagine he can make someone feel that good without even looking made him in his drunken state wish he could have this all nights. 

Shibuya then introduced a fourth finger, stretching even more, going in and out at the time he twist his wrist so he could stimulate every millimeter inside him, but was also looking for the sweet spot, Rick’s prostate and with a loud cry from writer he knew he found it, puting special attention to that spot Shibuya accelerated the rhythm, he also was starting to bit his lips, breathing more intensely, watching writer like that was a delight. 

“ahh---d-do it... I-ahh-I’m re-ady--” Writer muttered between moans, the moment Shibuya was waiting patiently, he kept moving his hand in and out but with his other hand he undid the cloth band that held his pants tight to take out his own erection, not wanting shibuya took out his hand and placed his pulsating dick on the prepared entrance, sliding inside in one move hitting his prostate. 

“AH--!” Writer let out another loud cry, his eyes went black for a second, he could feel the orgasm as a shock wave through all his body but the restrain made him impossible to cum, looking back at Shibuya with tears of pleasure running through his cheeks, begging for him to move, to keep making him feel good, to never stop. 

“I wish you could see how beautiful you are.” Shibuya said bending toward Writer, about to kiss him but not, instead he went to his ear and neck to kiss there, play and stimulate him more, still immobile hips, he allowed Writer to move by himself seeking for that pleasure just a bit more, 

Kisses are for lovers, Writer understand that, but at that moment of excitement he wanted to be kissed passionately but Shibuya compensates, he always do, saying beautiful praises to his ear, making feel as if he was the center of the universe, making him shiver as his heart was racing in his agitated chest. 

Shibuya started to move his hips, in and out, circle movement with his hips, up and down, from the tip to the base Shibuya made sure he filled Rick completely, leaving no spot unattended, moving guided by the moans and pleas of the other he hit harder and faster at every thrust, breathing heavily, stimulating that secret spot on writer’s ears, touching the body only the necessary, masturbating him with his free hand, Writer was crying, it hurts, how could it be possible to feel so much pleasure? It was overwhelming but he still wanted.

More, he knew Shibuya was capable of giving him more, and without noticing he was begging while crying, asking what he needed, all shame was washed out through the sweat dripping in the floor, Shibuya indulged every plea, every desire feeding his own with Writer’s tears full of pleasure, there was no elegance left, just lust and hunger being satisfied. Shibuya groaned and moaned, he was so close, he made writer know that, with stronger movement towards his sensitive spot, writer was dizzy of how much he was feeling, willing it to end and continue for eternity at the same time. 

“HGM----!” 

Shibuya came inside writer filling him with how he felt like liters of hot liquid, untying the principal knot on writer’s dick he allowed the novelist to cum, feeling all the restrained orgasms at one time, his entire body trembled and twitched making him scream in pure desire and pleasure, Shibuya stared at him while cumming inside, some of his semen was starting to drip outside of how full writer was, trying to maintain his eyes focused to see Writer melting in multiple orgasms, he felt his legs weakening but wanted to stay there, inside, it was so difficult due to the waves of extra pleasure writer was giving him without knowing by tighten his entrance trapping Shibuya inside. 

After what seemed like hours of orgasms they both finally rested, Shibuya went out allowing his seed escape to the floor, accommodating his pants Shibuya carefully started to untie his friend, knot by knot, kissing the marks and massaging the joints. he was so caring even after the sex, Shibuya was tired, but still he was going to make sure Writer was ok and safe. 

Writer was weak and ready to vanish, his sight was blurry and looked how nice Shibuya was being to him, he wanted to stay awake to also feel the caring, but it was impossible, if only they've met in different circumstances, he doesn’t know if he said it or if he thought it, or if it was because the incense and the excitement but writer final words after passing out were curses to whoever made Shibuya not believing in love. 

.... 

At the next day the bohemical duo wasn’t at the usual bar. Writer had an appointment at Shibuya’s house, not to have sex, but Shibuya was treating with creams and massages the leftover pain caused by the ropes, his massages were the best thing he ever knew. this man was full of useful skills. 

“so.. when you know, these marks are gone... maybe... you know..” Writer mumbled embarrassed “You could show me more of your art, f- for research purposes.” 

Shibuya giggled and nodded “I can teach you all you need to know for your research” 

Writer was so happy he had a friend like that, and Shibuya was grateful to have someone he can trust his friendship like this again. 


	2. Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the days when Writer, Editor and Counter worked in school.  
> NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Lilium125

The bell had just struck, marking the end of one lesson and the beginning of another at Morty's Hight School.

The Mortys in class got up almost simultaneously, chatting happily with each other and ignoring the professor's latest reproaches, clearly a Rick.

While all the other classmates collected their belongings and headed for the lockers, only one Morty was left behind, still sitting at his desk. He looked pensive and a little distressed, while he was putting his notebooks and books in his backpack automatically.

His school pace was going very badly, if even this year he hadn't been able to graduate and be assigned to a new Rick... he didn't even want to think about it.

« D-don't you come? C-come on, we’re g-gonna be late, or do you want to get p-punished again? », another Morty, perfectly identical to him, had called him from the door, disappearing immediately in the corridor.

Morty got up and left the classroom, shuffling his feet, disheartened. He had to hurry, he could still be saved before the end of the school year.

Maybe he wouldn't have been assigned to a good Rick, with the marks he had, but better than nothing.

He absentmindedly opened his locker and put down the books of biology and alien anatomy, to replace them with those of languages and intergalactic literature. Subject in which, needless to say, it was very bad. And not just because of him.

He went to class with his face down and his backpack on one shoulder, so immersed in his thoughts that he did not notice that the professor was already in class.

« K-728C, you are late. Again ».

Morty looked up, blushing embarrassed. He stammered an apology and ran to sit in his place, pulling out all the books he had in his bag and putting them on the desk in front of him, hiding behind him.

The professor had resumed the lesson with his usual annoyed expression, sitting on the chair with open legs and a cigarette in his fingers. He always had the cigarette in his hand while he explained, while when he debating a student he kept it in the balance between his lips, but always off. He never smoked in the classroom.

Despite being tremendously demanding and rarely giving high marks, he was very popular with the students of his course, because besides being a professor he was also a famous writer. Many Mortys had a crush on him.

Including him.

« Any questions? », he concluded, casting a bored look at the boys in front of him. Morty ducked behind the pile of books, hoping to go unnoticed. Almost half the class raised their hands and Writer looked at one of the Mortys sitting by the window, nodding his head to allow him speak.

« Professor, it is true that there will be a sequel to your last boo- ».

« Any questions _about this lesson_? », he growled nervously, rubbing his eyes from under his glasses. All hands dropped suddenly, pissing the professor off even more.

« Well, if you feel so prepared that you have no questions… », there was no need for the sentence to end. He brought the cigarette to his mouth and got out of the chair to go to the blackboard. He took a piece of chalk with his long, tapered fingers and began to write a few sentences in an alien language, with his elegant and clear handwriting.

In the classroom, that frightened silence fell that could only precede a surprise question.

Morty hid even more, praying that the teacher would vent his anger on the Mortys who had raised their hands to ask an inappropriate question, but clearly that was not his lucky day.

« K-728C, can you come translate these sentences for me? », Writer sat down on the desk again, this time facing the blackboard. Morty got up trembling, his face red and his brain totally blocked. The professor handed him the piece of chalk, while with the other hand he grabbed the class register.

Morty stared at the white and dusty words in front of him, feeling the gaze of his classmates and the teacher.

« Try at least one sentence, choose the one you prefer », the professor's tone behind him was hard, but when Morty barely turned his face and met his gaze he realized that there was a sort of exhortation in his eyes.

He didn't want to disappoint him again.

With a trembling hand he began to write under one of the sentences. His handwriting, in comparison to Writer's, was crooked, flickering, and the chalk squeaked annoying every time he touched the blackboard.

He tried to cover as much as possible with his body the view of his companions on the blackboard as he finished translating, and he stared at the words he had written as dazed, trying to pick up the voice of some other Morty in case he wanted to suggest.

« I-I’m d-done », he said, because Writer had looked down the register and was no longer paying attention to him.

He moved just enough to allow the professor to read, but the chuckles of his companions behind him presaged only another F.

He had just enough time to notice Writer's look of disappointment, then the bell rang cheerfully and his companions got up to go to the next lesson.

He started to return to the place too, but the professor called him back.

« Stay a moment longer, Mr. Smith ».

Morty turned back with his head bowed, still red in the face and burning with shame at the embarassment he had just made. Usually in the classroom the teachers called them by dimension, because all having the same name and surname, but in that case he was left alone in the classroom, there could be no misunderstanding.

He approached the desk again, gazing at the register to see if he had had another bad grade, but the professor closed it with a dry noise.

« This is the third year you try to graduate, isn't it? », Writer sat down on the chair, looking at him with his icy eyes and carrying the cigarette again between his fingers. Morty didn't have the courage to lift his face.

« Y-yes ».

The teacher took a long breath before answering him, as if he were measuring words well.

« Study well tonight, I’ll give you a surprise test tomorrow ».

Morty looked up, but this time he didn't meet that of the professor, who had taken the notebook from which he never separated from his pocket and started taking notes. Morty realized he had been disband, so he greeted with a stammered "have good day, professor" and left the class, heading for the next lesson.

As a student he could not realize that this was a way of Writer to help him, telling him in advance of a surprise test to give him time to prepare, rather he became convinced that this was a punishment and that his professor hated him.

He arrived at his locker and put down the books, taking the bag with the spare clothes and went to the dressing room that preceded the gym, to prepare himself for the physical education lesson. He was not good at that, he did not have the athlete's nature, but he could not be exempted, because it was a compulsory subject. A Rick must have a Morty by his side who could keep up with him on his adventures.

When he opened the locker room door to enter, he nearly ran into another Morty who was leaving, also him late.

« S-s-so-sorry, I d-d-didn’t s-se-see y-you », he smiled sweetly, stepping aside to make room for him to enter and holding a bottle of water in his hand.

« S-sorry, Lime, I'm in a bit of a hurry », he said passing him and heading for the benches to change.

« W-w-what d-did the p-pr-p-professor t-tell you? », he continued, following him with his eyes and watching him take off his shoes.

« That t-tomorrow there is a surprise test... but don’t tell o-others or I am passed off, also this year », he replied absently, digging into his bag and pulling out his tracksuit.

« A t-test? I-I-I'll have t-to s-study a-a-all n-night! », the boy squeaked nervously.

Morty rolled his eyes. That was one of his best friends there at school, but he couldn't stand the way he took his homework and marks so seriously.

In reality he envied him deeply, because a Morty like him would surely have been assigned to an excellent Rick, perhaps rich as Miami or fascinating as the professor of languages and literature…

« Hu-hurry, o-or the p-p-pr-p… p-professor w-will g-g-get m-mad and m-make you d-d-do p-pu-push-ups », Lime added, getting Morty out of his thoughts, whom got upset.

« I know, a-and it will take me even longer, if you t-takes ten minutes to finish a sentence », he immediately regretted the words he had just said, but Lime continued to smile sweetly, accustomed to the comments on his stutter, which was common in Morty, but in his case it was even more serious.

« Sorry, I didn’t mean to ».

« I-i-it d-do-doesn’t m-m-ma-ma… », he gave up finishing the sentence and shrugged, leaving the locker room and leaving him alone.

Now Morty also felt guilty, as well as depressed.

By now it was useless to hurry, it was worth doing calmly and reflecting a bit on what to do. As he undressed to change, he began to think about which subject to focus his efforts on increasing the average of his grades.

Physical education was not a subject in which he could engage more than he already did, there was no need to study, but only to struggle. The professor of intergalactic languages and literature would never have given him a good mark if he had not seriously worked up night and day on his subject.

Not even mathematics was his strength, because of his dyslexia and dyscalculia it was practically impossible for him to go beyond the simplest operations. If they also put the letters together with the numbers he had no hope. In the theory of biology and alien anatomy it wasn't too bad, it was the practice that made him vomit, so even there his marks were not excellent.

Too concentrated and brooding, he did not notice that the professor's whistle no longer echoed among the screams of the other students.

« We’re slacking off here? ».

Morty winced, instinctively covering his bare chest with the school uniform cardigan. Was it possible that this was his most unfortunate day?

The professor of physical education stood in front of the door with his arms crossed, resting on the jamb. He wore his usual orange suit, which always smelled of plastic and sweat, and the whistle rocked on his chest.

« E-excuse me, p-professor, but the li-literature professor held me b-back after class », he stammered in fear. He had no desire to take two bad marks on the same day.

The teacher entered the locker room with a strange look, was he looking sorry, perhaps? Yet there was a glimpse of hungry behind that expression.

« Now do he also entertain students? », he snarled something else after these words, but Morty couldn't understand what. Embarrassed and half naked, he didn't know what to do, while the professor approached him without taking his eyes off him. He would surely put a bad mark on him, he was sure.

He had to move and run to class, maybe he could still fix it.

« I r-run immediately f-from the others », he said, putting on his yellow t-shirt, but as soon as he unbuttoned his uniform pants, he stopped, feeling the professor's eyes on him.

He didn't want to undress in front of him, but at the same time he also wanted to reach out to others. He was starting to have anxiety seriously.

Editor sat on the bench next to him, clapping a hand to sign him to sit down.

« You are so upset... tell your professor what happened. Something troubles you, CK... no, J2... er ... Morty? », he had a faint smile and watery eyes, but Morty couldn't see it. The weight on his chest seemed to have vanished in an instant. Editor just wanted to talk to him, maybe help him...

He sat down beside him, embarrassed and reassured at the same time.

« P-professor, I’m afraid I’m g-gonna fail again this year », he began, looking at his knees. He felt the professor's hand slip behind him, resting on the bench, and Editor came closer to him.

« Are your grades so bad? », Rick's hand slid down to his shoulder and Morty shivered, feeling uneasy about the unwanted physical contact. He said nothing, merely nodding.

« And Writer told you he wants to reject you? Oh no, it’s not really good… we have to do something to raise your grades a little », he squeezed his hand on the boy's shoulder, who didn't say a word.

Increase his grades.

His leg moved up and down nervously as he thought. If he had taken an A in physical education, he would certainly have balanced the terrible marks in mathematics and if he had stayed awake all night to prepare for the test the following day, perhaps letting himself be helped by Lime, whose notes were impeccable...

Once again Morty was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the hungry glances his professor gave him. It seemed that he was passing X-rays with his eyes, lingering on every point where the skin was visible. The drool on the mouth typical of every Rick seemed even more abundant than usual. He approached the boy just enough to whisper in his ear.

« Come to my office after class, son. I'll help you get a good grade ».

Morty shivered again, but didn't care. Not before the prospect of not being rejected again.

The professor got up and looked at him one last time from head to toe, before leaving the locker room.

When Morty had finished changing and was ready for class, the bell rang again.

He hoped with all his might that Editor really had a good plan not to let him fail.

The last bell of the day declared the end of the lessons.

Dozens of Morty poured out of the building, cheerful and carefree, heading for their dormitory. Morty said goodbye to his classmates and headed upstairs, where he knew the Editor's office was.

When he found himself in front of the closed office door - on the right side of the wall there was the sign "prof. Rick Sanchez - physical education ”- he felt nervous. He took a deep breath and knocked twice before hearing permission to enter.

Once inside, the teacher immediately gestured him to close the door behind him. He obeyed and came forward. Editor was sitting behind his desk, his hands resting on his lap, smiling at him carefully.

« Sit down, Morty », he said without taking his eyes off him. Morty felt uncomfortable. No professor ever called them by name, always and only by dimension or by surname.

Maybe it was just a way to put him at ease, to make him understand that he was really willing to help him.

« So you want to be graduated, don't you? », the professor moved on the armchair, bending slightly backwards against the back.

Morty nodded enthusiastically.

« What happened to your original Rick? », Editor rested the elbow of his right arm on the arm of the armchair, moving his forearm as if he were stroking his belly, but Morty didn't notice, because the question he had asked him, so point-blank, had left him puzzled.

All, or almost all, Morty's High School students had lost their original Rick, someone even more than a Rick, and apart from the enrollment forms, where it was mandatory to specify how many Rick's had had and why they didn't have them anymore, that it was not a question that was often asked.

Too personal, too painful. Not even among classmates was such a question asked.

He looked down, hated to deal with the topic.

« He l-left me here a d-day and he never came b-back to pick me up, I don't know why… ».

A groan from the professor made a lump in his throat and felt that he could trust him if he was moved by his words.

What Morty could not see, having a low face and tangled emotions due to the memories of his old Rick, was that Editor was not at all moved or sorry.

He was stroking the member still in the sweatpants, under the desk, in front of one of his students unaware of everything. He risked going crazy with excitement, he loved when they were particularly naive.

« And tell me, do you really want a new Rick? », the voice was broken with pleasure, while the hand tightened around the dick bandaged of orange cloth.

Morty looked up to smile at his professor, nodding his eyes slightly damp with tears.

Editor looked at him hungry, gesturing for him to get up and join him behind the desk. Morty was confused, but got up and walked around the table. A shrill cry of surprise escaped him.

The professor was untiing the laces of his pants, which could not hide the huge erection inside them.

« Show me you deserve an A », Editor grunted, biting his lower lip and pulling out his hard wet cock. Morty did not move, immobilized by fear, his eyes hypnotized following the movement of the professor's hand that he made up and down along the rod.

« N-no, I… ».

« No what? You said so, didn't you? Do you want to graduate... and I can help you – he let out another indecent groan – or do you want to add my bad vote to your collection too? », Morty was shaking, terrified.

The professor was right, if he too had put an F on him he would have been definitively rejected, in a very direct way.

With eyes full of tears, and this time not out of emotion, he nodded slowly.

« Good boy, come to daddy… », Editor reached out to take his hand, grabbing him with his own with which he had masturbated until a few seconds before, which was wet and sticky.

« Kneel down, earn this A ».

Morty knelt mechanically, not knowing what to do. The professor pushed his member close to his face, and he could smell its strong smell, between rubber, sweat and something he could not understand. He didn't want to do it, but the same phrase was always repeated in his head, like a mantra.

" _For the graduation, for the graduation, for the graduation_ ".

As soon as he touched the wet glans with the tip of his tongue, Editor moaned, tilting his head back and stroking his hair. Morty stiffened, fearing that the professor would push his head and make him strangle with that huge cock, but Rick simply stroked his hair, pulled it a little, but let him decide the rhythm.

He noticed the boy's hesitation and smiled cruel.

« Did you think I would force you? No, you have to _deserve_ it, I can't do everything on my own… », he gave him two light slaps on the cheek, bringing one hand back into the boy's hair, while the other held the elastic of his pants down. He hadn't even pulled them down completely.

Morty went back to licking his teacher with small laps, letting his mouth be invaded by his flavor and his ears by his obscene phrases.

" _For the graduation, for the graduation, for the graduation_ ".

Among the various curses, he gave him instructions on how to give him a blowjob as it should: while Morty's mouth was already filled with the huge erection, Editor also inserted the index and ring finger between the boy's lips, widening them more and by dripping saliva onto the floor. He touched his tongue with his fingers and showed him where and how to lick.

« Good boy... and don't grit your teeth, you made my boner so hard that you would break them - he chuckled, moaning obscenely - Now I'll teach you how not to choke », he slipped his fingers from his mouth, taking his face with both hands and pushing his cock up his throat. Immediately Morty tried to retreat, holding back a retching.

« No, that’s not good. You have to relax, slide it into your throat… you have to _receive_ it », the professor looked at him from top to bottom with his eyes half closed with pleasure. The boy tried again, trying to do it as the teacher told him, but every time he risked choking.

And Editor seemed to like it crazy.

He didn't know how long he had been kneeling between Editor's legs, he only knew that his knees and also his tongue, lips and jaw hurt. And the professor did not seem even close to orgasm.

He was about to surrender, to hell the graduation, to hell the votes, he couldn't take it anymore, but as if he had read his thoughts, Editor took his chin in his hands, pulling the member out of his mouth.

A thin stream of saliva joined the boy's red and swollen lips to the man's glans.

« You're doing really well, baby - he made him get up and sucked on his lower lip, before pushing him to ninety on his desk - now let's see if you also deserve praise », Morty tried to turn around, but a hand of the professor held him firmly against the desk, pressing his red and pulsating erection on his butt. With the other hand he opened the drawer to his right and Morty strained to look inside.

There was a fucking arsenal.

Dildos, vibrators, condoms, lubricants. There was everything in that drawer.

« N-no, p-professor… p-plea- », but Editor silenced him by lowering his uniform pants and slapping him on a butt.

« You’ve come this far, why not aim at the maximum? Come on, relax… you’ll like it too », he took a condom with his free hand and unwrapped it with the help of his teeth.

Morty wasn't ready, but inside he thought it was the right price to be assigned to a new Rick.

He shouldn't have studied anymore, he shouldn't have spent another year closed in that hell of school...

The plastic smell of the condom came to him and immediately brought him back to the smell that the professor always had on him and there was the doubt that he was not the only student to sell himself for a good mark.

Considering what he saw in that drawer...

Lulled by the thought of not being the only bitch to have made that little game, he narrowed his eyes when he felt the professor press against his opening, not too gently.

« Oh, y-you're so tight, baby... g-good boy ».

" _For the graduation, for the graduation, for the graduation_ ".

He left the Editor's office walking a little like a duck, with his hair unkempt, all in disorder and his face still red and sweaty. His ass hurt very badly, but the professor had complimented him and in front of his eyes he had written on the register a nice big A next to his name.

He was really happy, though aching.

He made his way down the corridor as fast as he could, ready to go home, but he never expected to find another professor in front of him.

« Mr. Smith, why are you still out and about in school? You should have been in the dorm hours ago! », professor Writer looked at him with his cold and detached eyes, looking at him from head to toe and then looking at the door of the nearest office. Obviously that of Editor.

Morty froze on the spot, looking for an excuse as quickly as possible.

« I had f-forgotten... well, the p-professor Editor... s-supplementary lesson... uh... see you tomorrow, professor », he mumbled, heading back and running down the corridor, heading for the stairs on the other side of the building.

Writer watched him run away, crumpling the papers with the just-corrected homework in his hand. That walk and that guilty expression knew them all too well.

He strode to the colleague's physical education office, kicking the door open.

Editor was masturbating again.

« What the fuck did you do? », the writer barked with his eyes out for his anger.

The other looked at him shrugging and with an innocent expression, without ceasing to touch himself.

« Nothing, I gave him an A ».


	3. God cannot be bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer Rick, before knowing the Stuttering Books, when he was a truly believer of activism to save Mortys' rights.  
> The Church we referred to belongs to Dimension_Tanuki, along with Father Rick
> 
> Chapter By RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

God cannot be bad.

That was what he was thinking as he looked at that corpse on the ground, immersed in a pool of blood, with his eyes open and distant.

Someone told him that phrase a long time ago. A Morty. One of those he had tried to save with words, but had already been too ruined. He was one of those who had returned from the Church, in a brainwashing that could only have been Father Rick's hand.

God cannot be bad.

God was not God, Christian, Catholic, Indian or whatever he was.

God was Rick.

And that was the biggest lie ever created.

Writer rested his fingers over the lying Morty's light brown eyes, lowering his lids gently and respectfully.

"I'm ready, Rick".

Writer was kneeling halfway on the ground, over the small lifeless body that rested forever. Not far away, a slightly chubby Morty with a camera on his shoulder looking ready to shoot.

"If you move I'll take it back".

"No".

Writer stood up, stepping aside as the cops approached to draw the boundaries of the murder, locking the boy in a black sack.

The man passed his fellows, then the reporter, headed upstairs of that abandoned building in Morty Town.

"Shoot the rest".

The reporter looked at him questioningly, unable for the umpteenth time to shoot something really juicy, which would have given them more prominent channels, more incisive results. What was rough, always managed to stir the most morbid consciences.

But too often Rick didn't care. Respect, sensitivity, protection, the desire not to make a show of those who could not defend themselves. He always used these excuses and their salary was never high enough, unable to negotiate.

How many opportunities he had and would have lost that man for his morals.

The reporter sighed, turning on the camera and following Rick up the stairs, filming everything around them that had good documentation out of them: peeling walls, Rickless Mortys anti-Rick graffiti, syringes, condoms, alcohol and medicine. Incredible that that place was inhabited by sixteen year olds.

"What are we looking for?" he asked, in one of his usual questions that annoyed the writer. Like all the others, in short. In that he was very a Rick.

“The sense of this place”.

Simple questions for abstruse answers. Hermetic.

Rick was always looking for a sense, an explanation, a reason, in a frustrated and exasperating vicious circle that never left him alone and never gave him what he wanted.

Sense.

Paradoxically, he represented the sense of that situation: the Ricks. Nothing else.

They had attacked that building a few hours ago, trying to make it look like a war between Mortys gangs, but it was clear that this was not the case: residues of portal activity had been traced by the police and it was extremely difficult for the Mortys to have portalguns. It was unspeakable what they would do to get one and be able to run away from there.

Rick probed every single room, trying to find someone else, possibly alive. There were no other corpses thank goodness, but perhaps that was even worse, a symptom of the fact that the boys had been kidnapped, at the mercy of a fate even worse than death.

Arriving at the last, the writer closed his eyes for a moment, tired, unaware of being filmed by the reporter's camera, merciless. He entered the room, taking out a notebook from his pocket, which had a pen in the middle: he looked around, green-eyed stealing what those walls had to say to him. If the Citadel didn't want to see it, then he would show it to entire galaxies. The Ricks’ Secret Council had unceremoniously taken him out since he'd begun to expose the scandals happening in Mortytown and beyond. The only reason why he had been able to continue writing was the President: Mortimer had pardoned him, admitting to admire his work of "decontamination". The way he called it made him shiver. Still, he had to thank him: if he could sneak freely into the investigation, it was only because the President had recommended him to Lieutenant Richard; a man of integrity whose strict morals managed to maintain a glimmer of order and hope within the Citadel. Rick had seen him on more than one occasion and both had remained extremely distant and rigid, despite the respect they felt towards each other: one knew the deeds of the other, the other knew his research and activism. As if they were part of the same mechanism, residing in different sectors but oiling the same gears.

Rick was lost in writing words, emotions, feelings and thoughts; everything that that room conveyed to him. The reporter filmed every corner, looking for details lost in the dust and garbage.

Leaning on the ground, he tried to move a sofa, while the other hand held the camera on his shoulder: the equipment almost fell to the ground in fright, seeing a hand hidden behind the sofa trying to catch him with his nails, to then withdraw.

The reporter fell backwards, walking away: "Hey, w-what the fuck ..."

Rick turned immediately, frowning as he approached the sofa, covering the reporter's view and standing in front of him.

He tilted his head, trying to see what was back there, guessing from the yellow shirt that it must be a Morty. It was too dark to tell if he was a regular one, or some other kind.

“Hey… Relax. You can come out, those assholes are gone. "

The Morty hiss like a cat, seeing Rick take another step: the writer knelt, as he had just done to that corpse. But that Morty was alive, and he had to stay.

At any cost.

He saw eyes staring at him and giggled, while the reporter went back to filming: "Oh yes, you're right, there's still an asshole in this room, but I don't want to do anything to you. I just want to… get you out of here ”.

The reporter leaned over Rick's shoulder, willing to capture the exact moment when the Morty came out, trusting a Rick: with that video they would have made a lot of money. What better image for the President's next election campaign or book sale of the next future book than a symbol of the alliance between Ricks and Mortys?

The Morty, hesitant, took a single step outward, wary and cautious. Rick kept his confident, patient smile: he had to save him. He had to get him out of that shit. He wouldn't close his eyes too.

As the Morty approached again, the reporter stepped forward as well, frightening him and pulling him back. Rick turned to his colleague, mad as hell, but showing him only by the eyes; the reporter shrugged: “How else do you want me to do? It’s so dark that I have to be close ”.

“Don't do it, then”.

"What?"

"You understand me".

No, Reporter Morty didn't understand. He didn't want to understand. He was again giving up valuable material for… for what ?! Yet another lost and desperate street kid?

Fuck, they were professionals! Street detectives! If they were softened by every puppy lost along the way they would never get a shit back.

HE would never take a shit back.

"No!" he said, struck by a look from Rick and lowering his voice, hissing so as not to be heard: "No! It’s not possible that it ends like this every time! "

“If you don't want it to _really_ end, stop it. I'll pay your salary, so cut your stupid and unappreciated director’s soul and step aside ".

The two looked at each other for a moment, but the reporter obviously knew who had the power in hand. He turned, lowering the camera and sighing loudly, going to wait for Rick outside. There he was useless.

Writer looked back at that Morty hiding behind the sofa, which was holed up even more. He sighed, before just reaching out his hand, with a gentle smile, as he used to do only with Mortys and only on those occasions.

"Come on, baby ... We'll take you to eat something, with a bed all to yourself and ... what do you like to do?"

The Morty looked at him for a moment, before answering in a hoarse, low voice, very different from that of the other Mortys: "S-skate ..."

Rick widened his smile, nodding, “Really? Well, it's not easy ... I don't know how to do it, you know? Maybe you could teach me. I could teach you what an hyperbole is, but I don't think it would be so useful ".

Rick laughed again, in a low voice, seeing the Morty approaching, cautious but curious. He could do it. He could take him away from that hell and try in every way not to let him return.

"Come on, Morty ... I'm taking you away from here."

"M-Morticia ..."

Rick frowned, not understanding.

"What?"

Slowly, when the writer least expected it, the Morty came out from behind the sofa, revealing himself: a yellow shirt, torn and stained with sperm; hair knotted and dirty but definitely longer than normal; her tiny breasts slightly visible from under the fabric and her features slightly softer.

“… M-my name is Morticia”.

Morticia hadn't let go of Writer's hand even for a moment, hugging him tightly, wrapped in the big reporter’s jacket that fit her at least three times, given her size. By the time he found out that Morticia was female (and quite pretty), he had definitely changed his attitude, becoming a helpful and accommodating gentleman. He no longer even noticed Writer's glares, who rolled his eyes at the umpteenth compliment he was addressing the girl. If most of the Mortys were gay, that reporter was straight as fuck, which is why he had so much trouble in the Citadel. His penchant for effeminate Mortys and Summers was forced rather than spontaneous and sincere.

Writer walked the corridors of the police headquarters: he had to deliver documents to Lieutenant Richard, before taking Morticia to a shelter, signing in her stead in order to be enrolled in school. She would have had to wait a long time, months or even longer, before she was taken, but surely her peculiarity would have helped her find a Rick immediately. They would fight for it, in a good way he hoped.

"Do you have the memory card?"

Reporter Morty didn’t respond, dazed staring at Morticia who was looking at him out of the corner of her eye, wary.

"MORDER!"

"EH, WHAT, WHAT ?!" Morder jumped, and for the umpteenth time the camera was saved from a bad fall.

“The memory card !! Give it to me! "

Morder opened the door of the camera, taking one of the two memory cards inside and handing it to Writer, who snorted impatiently.

In there, there was proof that he was finally nailing Father Rick: that damned bastard was involved; not in the deaths, but in the disappearances of the Mortys. Those who did not come to his Church were destined to be fed to the other Ricks, getting the coordinates of their hiding places and their security plans, precisely from those Mortys who were now devoted to God (Rick) and followed his holy purpose .

Rick nearly broke the disc in his fingers in anger.

As long as he had breath in his body, he would hunt down those damned sons of bitches, one by one. He did not know that, a few weeks later, he would become one of them, falling in love with a Morty with milk white skin and inky black hair.

Morticia moaned and Writer saw that he was holding her hand tight too, frightening her.

“Sorry, baby, did I hurt you? We'll be leaving here soon, don't worry- "

Someone gave him a blow with the shoulder, hitting his: it was a body as hard as marble and the backlash was remarkable.

Writer turned, ready to send to fuck off anyone who had nearly dislocated his shoulder, before looking at Lieutenant Richard who was looking at him, with a serious but inflamed look. He was in a hurry, but he recognized him.

"Lieutenant," said Writer, in a small bow reciprocated by the military, who did not stop in his run.

“Emergency, Writer. Whatever your documentation is, give it to my grandson in that room ... "Writer was about to turn around, before the increasingly distant voice interrupted him:" Or to Sergent Rick X-88976. "

The one who was supposed to be the Sergent approached Writer, making them move away from the corridor to take them into another room.

Writer did not know that this would be the last time he would see the Lieutenant, who died shortly after due to a serial killer who had wreaked havoc on the entire Citadel.

He didn't even know that having saved Morticia that day, giving her one of his books before taking her to the shelter, would have repaid him with the greatest gift he could have received: Designer.


	4. Psycho Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer Rick hates the most of his fans. But, sometimes, he's right.
> 
> Tattoo Rick belongs to Dimension_Tanuki
> 
> This chapter is set in the very past, before Writer knew the Stuttering Books, Designer and Publisher
> 
> Chapter by RickishMorty

It wasn't a particularly new or original scenario. In fact, to tell the truth, the two Ricks no longer even needed to order. The waiters knew very well what they got and preferred, taking care to get it to them as soon as possible.

Tattoo and Writer came to that place at least once a week and generally the evening always ended in the same way: Tattoo serving a drink to a third Rick, who slowly collapsed on him drugged and drunk, while Writer took his leave, before the (un) lucky one was taken away by the tattoo artist inside a portal. It was a fairly standard dynamic and it was unlikely that it would end any other way. Unless Writer walked away with Tattoo, but never on drugs. Sometimes drunk.

They talked about everything: art, science, different cultures, gastronomy, philosophy and morality. They joked, too, especially when Writer got particularly mad at a speech and Tattoo falsely took it little seriously, downplaying and infuriating him even more.

All this, until another Rick approached, asking them to sit at the table, sometimes using the excuse of recognizing Writer and wanting an autograph, but then easily falling into the perfect and inviting trap of Tattoo, offering him his tea, seeing them slowly lose consciousness.

That was one of those moments when the two were sharing a rare moment of silence, managing to afford it with tranquility due to the confidence they had towards each other. It was almost the end of the evening and the place was practically empty.

Writer giggled in a low voice, taking his last sip of bitter drink. Tattoo exhaled the smoke from his kiseru, looking at him curiously.

"What's up?"

"Nothing, nothing," the writer minimized, laughing under his breath.

"Do you keep me secrets, Hoshii?"

"No, I was just feeling sorry for you."

"For me? And why on earth? " Tattoo asked, still inhaling his long pipe.

Writer looked at him slyly, shrugging and pretending to be sorry: "I think you'd be out of luck tonight..."

Tattoo finally understood what the writer was referring to and looked at his amused smile, eager to erase it in his own way, to restore that annoyed expression that always seemed to be cornered. The one he liked best.

Tattoo slowly exhaled the smoke, in a mischievous smile that cracked Rick's, immediately put on the defensive. The tattoo artist approached him, leaning over the table, grinning as Rick instead stepped back, cautious and closed in the shoulders. He loved seeing him like this ... That expression always so annoyed and in difficulty made him want to see him in a completely different situation and context.

"I’m never out of luck ..."

Rick frowned, but he couldn't help but feel chills in his stomach, both from that unsolicited closeness and from what Tattoo was saying: what did he mean? That he was always there as a spare tire if some Rick didn't fall into his trap? The writer felt himself seething with rage, despite those black and dark eyes that made him want to lower his defenses, to let himself go, again, as often happened with him ...

"May I?"

Writer was saved by the bell by that assault, as they both turned, Tattoo leaning towards Rick and Rick crushed with his back against the sofa. The one who had interrupted them was another Rick, with his hair combed back, a beard that framed his face and an extremely ostentatious perfume that enveloped his clothes.

Writer had spoken too soon: here was Tattoo's prey, it had only taken longer than usual to fall into the net.

"Sure..." Tattoo said slyly, recomposing himself on the table with Writer as he looked the newcomer from head to toe.

"I was just about to leave," Writer said sarcastically.

"Oh, too bad ..." said the man, who sat down next to Writer, without even deigning to look Tattoo; “… Because I came for you”.

Rick raised an eyebrow, taken aback: it wasn't the first time a fan had approached him, but generally it was a Morty. Evidently now that there were so few in the club, there was less embarrassment for a Rick to praise another Rick's work. If he was a fan. What if it was someone who was just flirting? The idea stroked his ego, as well as giving him the opportunity to have Tattoo gnawed, for once. Not that he was going to take the opportunity from THAT point of view: it was difficult for Writer to sleep with anyone. If someone teased him, he generally preferred to flirt. Too bad that very often he hated barely everyone.

"Me?" he said, feigning astonishment and earning a glare from Tattoo, who returned to his kiseru.

"Yes" for a second the man seemed in doubt, "You're the famous Writer Rick, right? I'm not wrong. I would recognize you among a thousand ”.

Tattoo arched an eyebrow as Writer blinked, taken aback. Well, he was pretty straightforward to be a fan and to be a Rick.

"True. You don't see such an annoyed expression every day, "Tattoo said, with a chuckle with his mouth closed. Writer turned to him, effectively confirming his statement as he was looking at him. Well? Did he want to ruin his place for once that they were more interested in him and not in Tattoo?

"Yes. No Rick has that look…" continued the host, turning Writer, who was starting to embarrass himself. He was far too direct for someone who had shown up a minute ago. But for once he wanted to show that he too knew how to play the game, instead of always disgusting everything and everyone. He hadn't noticed, however, that the tattoo artist's eyes had narrowed dangerously.

Tattoo, regardless of whether Rick knew it or not, was a mobster: this meant that he knew criminals or bad guys very well. He knew how to recognize a look that hid something, from a clear one: if Writer, even if annoyed, had clean eyes, that unknown Rick had a cloudy look instead. There was something that did not convince him. He was certainly very different from the naive Ricks he preferred to drug.

Or maybe, he was simply bothered by his closeness to the writer.

"Mmh ... D-do you want an autograph, or something?" Rick asked to cover up his embarrassment, shrugging. Maybe once that was done to him he would go away.

"No, I would like to chat with you while we have a drink ..." the other said, smiling, before looking at Tattoo as if seeing him for the first time "... unless I interrupted something".

Rick didn't look at Tattoo, but waited for him to answer. The tattoo artist was always extremely controlled, calm, as if nothing could ever touch him or really bother him. Was that succeeding? Tattoo just puffed smoke out of his mouth, staring at the bearded Rick, while Writer stopped waiting for an answer that wouldn't come. The truth was that Tattoo didn't want to decide for him.

"No, we ..." he could not finish, the other stopped him.

"Well, because I'm really obsessed with your books, honestly," he said, his eyes twinkling, leaning over the table towards Writer and only held back by the waiter who came to ask for orders.

"Tea for everyone," Tattoo said simply, stretching an arm behind Rick's back and placing it behind his shoulders. He caught a glare from him displaced, while the intruder observed that gesture with apprehension. What did he want to do? Drug him and take him home? Even if he was obviously flirting with him ?! Writer was sure he was self-centered, but maybe he wasn't the only one.

Tattoo simply wanted to neutralize him: he didn't like that attitude and Rick was too busy with himself and the attention he was receiving to see that. If he wanted to think that he wanted to fuck him, that he thought what he wanted. The important thing is that Writer went home. Alone.

"I know every single line by heart, I have devoured your books dozens of times and I think I have known you better than anyone else through them."

Writer at that moment saw the opportunity to make Tattoo jealous in front of his eyes vanish: that guy was crazy. Or in any case definitely disturbing. He wanted to turn to the tattoo artist to tell him to run away, but he couldn't help but keep looking at the intrusive guy. It was starting to give him chills.

The tea arrived at the table and Rick could watch out of the corner of his eye as Tattoo was pouring it, glimpsing a white powder falling into it. For once, he thanked the Japanese's unorthodox methods.

"It's been a long time since I hope to meet you ..." the Rick said, putting his hand close to Writer's, embarrassed by that search for contact. Fortunately, a cup went to divide them, then followed by another.

"A toast to this meeting, then," said Tattoo, with an amused smile at Writer's detriment, who looked at him very badly, distracted himself and took the other Rick's cup and drinking, followed closely by the other.

Tattoo immediately calmed down watching him drink, distracted for a moment by Writer's glare: danger narrowly escaped, that guy would be out of action in a while.

The Rick swallowed the tea, his eyes fixed on Writer, who was looking for a phrase to leave: why once there was a Rick fan had to be creepy? Oh, well ... The Ricks were, after all ...

"Have you plans for-"

"Unfortunately I have to wake up at dawn tomorrow. Fucking deadlines, huh? " Writer said, jumping to his feet, with Tattoo placing a hand from the wide sleeve over his mouth, hiding his amused smile. Rick was frustrated, feeling ridiculous and embarrassed, and aware that all of this was giving the Japanese a lot of fun. Why did he always have to lose?

Giving him another bad look, Writer pulled out his wallet to pay, with the other Rick grabbing his hand, stopping him.

Physical contact not required.

Writer stiffened. He wasn't afraid; Tattoo's scent reassured him, he knew it was right next to him, that nothing would happen. But that situation was still annoying.

"I'll pay, please" he only said, with a sad expression on his face for the evening that was coming to an end. Tattoo for a second wondered if he hadn't misunderstood that Rick's intentions and if he wasn't a right guy after all, just a little too pushy. But what changed, after all? It would have bothered him anyway ...

Writer would go home with him, or with no one else. Unless he really wanted to.

Writer scrambled off the table, nervous.

"Thank you".

"Are you sure I can't accompany you?"

“W-what? No, thanks, I don't- "

"But it's still early, I-"

"He always go away at this time, don't make it personal," said the tattoo artist, to whom that insistence was starting to bother again. The beautiful smile he had on his face, however, did not betray that emotion.

Writer secretly thanked him with his eyes, while the other looked at him murderously. Tattoo looked at him calmly, confidently, watching Writer emerge from the table out of the corner of his eye.

“’Night, Tattoo. Thanks for the tea ...? "

"Rickish".

"Thanks, Rickish," Writer nodded, with a polite nod, before casting one last look at Tattoo, who was quietly smoking his kiseru.

What would happen? Would he take advantage of him? Would he take him to his house, tattooing the black flower on him?

But above all, what did it matter?

It was a scene he had seen dozens of times. One more or less, what changed?

Perhaps it changed the fact that, after all, that night Writer didn't want to go back alone …

Writer turned, leaving the room, ready to walk home; that place was only ten minutes away.

Rickish looked at the door of the room, with a morbid, obsessive look. Tattoo felt an extremely pleasant sensation at the knowledge that in a few moments he would begin to collapse, sleepy and confused, under the effects of the drug. After that, he would decide what to do with him. He would probably have left him there until they threw him out of the club. He was very far from his tastes and it wasn't him he wanted to take to bed that night.

"They say it's better never to meet idols ..." Tattoo said, taking another aspiration from his kiseru.

"He is not my idol ..." the Rick said, still fixed on the door of the club, turning slowly. His eyes were too bright, it was strange: he should have already had his lids half lowered by that point. He was far too awake.

"... is my God".

That possessed look, lost in the void, made the kiseru detach from Tattoo's lips. The Japanese looked at him coldly, his black eyes nailing him.

That wasn't a fan.

He was a stalker.

Rickish smiled, suddenly, before pulling out his own doorstep: “But I guess I’m too lucky to be a fan, huh? Having been able to talk to him was a great fortune ”.

The fan rose, under Tattoo's stern eyes, whose smoke came from his nose slowly, menacing.

"Excuse me for the intrusion-"

"Never come back in here".

Rickish turned to Tattoo in amazement, frowning.

"W-what?"

"Come here again, or approach him again, and I will put an end to your life".

Tattoo was smiling, a faint smile that slightly curved his thin mouth. A smile that did not reach the eyes.

Rickish said nothing, just blinking, as if pondering for a moment. Then, he fired a portal in front of him, running into it, without saying anything else.

Alone again, Tattoo finally drank his cup of tea, reflecting on the details: his lids were not dilated, nor were his movements slowed or tired. Could that Rick have modified his body to be immune to his toxin?

He raised a corner of his mouth, disgusted by the way he had obviously flirted with the writer, in a morbid and blatant way, without a minimum of charm. The idea that Writer could often have to do with those disturbing fans made him put the cup a little too hard on the saucer. But he was alone, he could allow it.

For a second he did not laugh, thinking about how Writer had tried to put the situation to his advantage, before being defeated by the events, which always seemed to make fun of him, for the sake of seeing that annoyed and indignant expression on his face.

Suddenly, Tattoo was seized by a sudden doubt, an intuition that the annoyance had not allowed him to see before. Lowering his gaze, he squeezed his eyelids together as he saw a single, tiny white dot on the edge of Writer's cup: he stretched out his tapered finger, resting his fingertip on the ceramic and bringing it close to his eyes.

It was his drug.

… Writer must have confused the cups.

Home was only ten minutes away, but it felt like hours to Writer. He staggered, in the dark street, trying to keep his eyes open with difficulty, in a feeling that was halfway between drunkenness and sleep. He had been drinking, but not so much ... Maybe he had too much backward sleep?

He saw more blurry than usual, despite his glasses: at the end of the day his sight was always lowered due to fatigue, but now he could barely see what was in front of him. With a tired, aching moan, holding back a yawn, Writer pulled out his house keys, continuing to walk as he tried to identify the right one.

Arriving at the door, he began to try them on, turning them around and ending up reusing them over and over again. He could have fallen asleep there, if a hand hadn't rested on his shoulder, slowly.

"Need help?"

Rick turned, grunting annoyed and confused, barely able to see who was in front of him, narrowing his eyelids: that he was the Rick of the bar, he recognized him more by that strong smell of cologne than by his appearance.

"Are you ... Are you the one from before?" surely, the sentence sounded rude, because the man just twisted his mouth, and then immediately smiled.

“Rickish. Let me do it".

The man's hands brushed Writer's for longer than usual as he pulled out the keys, finally opening the door. Writer dazed at the set of keys, as if waiting for him to return it. Closing his eyelids at different intervals, he looked at him swaying in place.

"Thank you".

"Are you OK?" the tone of voice sounded worried, but if Writer had been more lucid he would have noticed a strange glint in his eyes. The same one he had had since they met.

"Mh-mh" Writer nodded as Rickish finally handed him the keys. He wasn't lucid enough to even ask himself why the hell he was there, or if he had followed him or if the meeting was just random.

"Thank you," Writer said, sobbing, as if waiting for the other to leave to enter the house. Although confused, the situation was making him uncomfortable: he loved being alone, both drunk and sober. And that closeness was definitely uncomfortable.

"Let me take you inside," Rickish said, with a morbid smile, as Writer tried to back away, to close the door behind him. His legs were shaking: he was literally in danger of falling asleep on his feet.

"No, no, I'm fine, I-" his eyelids closed for a moment and he almost fell, supported by Rickish who squeezed his arm. Okay, that reaction wasn't normal. What the fuck could have happened for drinking two drinks and a cup of tea?

...

The tea.

Fuck.

He must have exchanged the cups.

Damn Tattoo, what the hell was he putting in there?!?

Rickish, supporting Writer, took him inside the house, without asking for permission.

"I've always dreamed of entering here ..." he said, in a sighed, bewitched voice. Of course, that had to be his Sancta Sanctorum. Writer was becoming too unclear to realize that his house was now officially known to a fan: how long would it take before he sold the information on the internet?

"Don't ... Don't tell anyone where I live" asked the writer, who just wanted to be left on the sofa, seeing that unwanted guest disappear.

"I haven't done it so far ..."

Rick turned to him, still with an eerie smile curving his lips. What the fuck did that mean?

"I've known you are here for a long time ... I look at you every day" the confirmation of those words came from the fact that Rickish actually knew where to go, without anyone pointing it out. In fact, he was taking him upstairs to the bedroom.

Rick slumped down the stairs, giving himself up completely to make it difficult for him to drag him up, but unfortunately it wasn't enough. Rickish took him better, bringing his arm around his neck, with the other hand on his hip, wrapped around the flesh.

"You don't know how many times I imagined entering".

Writer could not even have palpitations, still trying to leave himself dead weight, shivering at those words that seemed more and more distant.

That wasn't a fan.

He was a stalker.

"Leave me..." Writer struggled to keep his eyes open as Rickish hauled him into the bedroom. The safety in which he moved around the house was disturbing, as if he had been there a million times.

Rick could have fallen asleep the moment he touched the mattress if it hadn't been for that figure in front of him and the tachycardia that, combined with the drug he had taken, created an internal contrast difficult to explain. It was like a lucid dream: you are afraid, you want to react, but you are immobile and you cannot.

Writer felt Rickish move his legs over the bed as he climbed onto him. Its cologne scent was unbearable. He wouldn't forget it anymore.

“We are finally together… As you wanted. As you made me understand in _Shoks_ , last year's book. You wrote it for me, right? "

Writer could hardly even spell the words anymore. His throat was dry and his eyelids sticking together. Because of Tattoo and his urge to fuck Ricks randomly around clubs, it was about to happen… something horrible was about to happen.

Writer squeezed his legs together in a last attempt to take a stance, but Rickish spread them out again, slowly, enjoying the movement.

He was feeling like throwing up.

"Don't worry ... Now we'll be together forever." Rickish lowered himself to his lips, which Writer curled, unnecessarily. The stalker kissed him, for a long time, taking possession of his non-cooperating mouth, without permission.

Rick felt those unfamiliar hands lift his shirt, revealing his torso. Not happy, he unbuckled his trousers, lowering them just a little.

Rick closed his eyes, practically passed out by now. Better. Better that way.

He didn't want to remember.

Suddenly, Rickish's weight disappeared from above him, despite his scent still hovering in the air. There was also something else, however: the smell of incense and perfumed oils.

“Watashi wa anata o hanatte oku koto wa dekimasen, raitā”.

Rick could not open his eyes and for a moment thought he was delirious, in those confused words, which almost seemed like another language. They were another language, but his linguistic skills at that time were definitely out of order.

He felt a sinuous hand, tapered and soft, brushing his cheek, barely moving his face to see if he was okay, to check him. The other went on his belly, controlling him in the same way, in what could have been a caress.

Writer shivered at that touch, which was more pleasant and delicate than the other, better known. But still intrusive.

The writer narrowed his eyes as much as he could, seeing above him the very fine hair of Tattoo that was going to touch his face: strange, they were not perfectly gathered in the bun, as usual. Indeed, they were rather elusive than usual. As if he had run.

"Tattoo ..." Writer only said, much more relaxed. He had no idea that whoever he was facing was actually a thousand times worse than the stalker he had escaped. Not with him, but he was.

"Are you OK?" that voice was similar to his, and also to that of the Rick who had just been above him. Despite this, he would have recognized it in a million.

Writer nodded only once, unable to make any other movements, or even speak. His mouth was incredibly dry.

"Did he touch you?" Tattoo's voice was low, as sharp as a katana blade.

"No more than you are doing now ..." Writer said with his eyes closed, mumbling those muddy words, but without giving up his stinging sarcasm even in those conditions.

Tattoo barely smiled: if he was joking, it meant he was fine.

"Are you telling me we're the same?"

"No, he kissed me."

Those words would not have escaped Rick if he hadn't been halfway between drunk and passed out. Despite this, he still realized what he had said. The way he said it.

He could pretend he was passed out, asleep, no longer conscious, and get out of that uncomfortable situation. Instead, Writer's stubbornness led him to squint again, in the last flashes of lucidity. He expected to see anger, superiority, that of Tattoo, even annoyance. In his very black eyes, however, he read something unusual: sadness.

Writer had never reproached him, but they both knew that this was an open wound, neither of them wanted to talk about: Tattoo didn't kiss. Not him, at least. Their bodies had known each other in so many ways, a thousand times more intimate than a kiss, yet that seemed forbidden. Hurting Writer's pride. And Tattoo knew that. There were other ways in which he made him feel wanted and desired, because he had that guilt within himself. But he never kissed him anyway, ever.

For a second, Writer hoped he would do it now, though he might not have remembered.

Rick saw Tattoo's hair swing as the Japanese shook his head, as if lost in thought.

"Do you know what I would love to do to you sometimes?"

Writer saw a green glow illuminate Tattoo's face as he felt himself falling backwards, landing on another bed. It was a tatami, and he knew it well. He had been there before.

With blurry vision, he realized they were in Tattoo's house now, and the Japanese was always on top of him.

He heard the words that followed as if they were a dream, between waking and sleeping, lulled by that hand that caressed his leg and climbed onto his chest.

“I would like to lock you in a room forever, hiding you from everyone's eyes, stealing you and keeping you just to myself”.

Writer's eyes were shining from the effort to keep them open, a breath away from falling asleep. He wanted to hear everything, he wanted to remember everything.

Perhaps it was fate that they could be honest with each other, only to then forget everything again. Whether it was for a drug, or for deleted memories.

Tattoo squeezed one hand in Writer's hair, while the other slipped under his boxers, squeezing his buttock. In his eyes now, more than sadness, there was excitement, but also a subtle malice.

“I would like to keep you with me at the cost of not letting you see the sunlight anymore”.

Tattoo dropped to his face, brushing his nose with his own, almond-shaped eyes staring at him. Writer could feel his breath on his lips.

"Whenever you get angry, that you become stubborn, that someone else approaches you ..."

Writer groaned in pain at the idea that Tattoo had finally abandoned his poker face, always indifferent, confident, and that he would never remember it.

"Why don’t you do that…?" Writer said those words in a whisper. It was not clear if it was a provocation, a hope or a simple question.

Tattoo also ran his other hand up to his hair, squeezing it with all his fingers, as he watched Writer collapse and finally fall asleep. What was different from the Ricks that he drugged every night? Why didn't he fuck him and lock him up there forever, making him his own every night with more violence than the previous one, making him addicted to opium to prevent him from reacting?

The Japanese took a deep breath, watching the writer sleep under him, holding off an erection that was hurting him.

“Dekinaikara. Kekkyoku, anata wa itsumo katsukaradesu ".

The next day, his head was exploding. Writer got up late in the morning, with an unbearable headache. It took him a while to realize that it was not at his house, but at Tattoo's. He was still dressed and his backside didn't hurt, so nothing ambiguous must have happened. But then why was him there?

He got up, going into the other room and holding his head with one hand, his eyes still thick with sleep. Tattoo was painting in silence, an incense wand smoking beside him.

"... What the hell happened last night?"

“You must have drunk a little too much” said the Japanese, without even turning around, continuing to paint, “you called me because you couldn't even enter the house. I brought you here, in case you got sick. "

Writer, as he spoke, was ashamed of the urge to look for the black flower on his skin, a symbol that Tattoo tattooed for each of his _victims_. He stopped immediately, already repentant.

"I knew I didn't have to accept the last round from that strange guy," he said, sitting down on the chair and rubbing his temples.

"He’s dead".

Writer waited a second, processing those words, as if thinking he had misunderstood.

"… What?"

“They found him dead this morning in his house. Inside his body he had a huge amount of paper. Pages of books ".

Writer blinked, wondering if he was still dreaming.

“… The guy we met last night? That fan? "

“He wasn't a fan, he was a stalker. The whole Citadel is talking about it apparently. He had a map of your house, pictures of you in the kitchen, in the bedroom, on the street. He had been following you for a long time ”.

Writer could not understand how it was possible that Tattoo could paint so quietly and at the same time talk about such grim things.

“But he can't do anything to you now. Evidently, he must have stepped on the toes of someone who was worse than him ”.

Tattoo finally turned, brush in hand, a reassuring, calm smile.

“Fortunately, he's no longer a problem”.

"… Fortunately?"

Tattoo arched an eyebrow, not understanding the question.

"... Someone killed him".

"But he was harassing you" the Japanese reiterated the concept. Perhaps Writer was still too sleepy to get the point.

“But that's no reason to rejoice that he was killed like that. It's terrible. Who the fuck can be sick enough to kill a person like that? "

Tattoo remained silent, the color drying on the brush.

Wasn't Writer happy?

An enemy of his was dead, and he wasn't happy?

Tattoo watched him shake his head, rediscovering for the umpteenth time how different they could be.

“I hope they get the killer. It's more dangerous than that Rickish ”.

Neither of them knew that this psycho fan would save the lives of two people in the future, two people who would hurt Writer for real, forever and that Tattoo couldn't kill.

Not anymore.

It wasn't what Writer wanted.


	5. First Glance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by me, illustration by Yusunaby

Counter remembered exactly how it started. How could he forget it? He had introduced them.

How can you forget that you are the worst bad for yourself?

The moment he introduced Writer to Publisher, he obviously couldn't imagine that he had brought him to meet his future husband.

To think that he just wanted to create a collaboration.

By the time Publisher arrived in his jacket with his usual sunglasses and a bright smile, Counter realized that something was wrong: Writer had remained silent. And leaving him speechless was almost impossible.

Publisher, however, never ran out of words.

"Oh, the famous Writer Rick, am I right? It's not a little pretentious as a name? I mean... you're not the only one of us who writes, are you?"

He had touched a bare nerve. Often it was not Ricks and Mortys who chose their own "nicknames": it was the Citadel that chose them for them. It hadn't been any different for him. His first bestseller had consecrated him as "Writer Rick" and that remained. He didn't mind, it was quite appropriate, but didn't he actually seem a little pretentious?

Writer recovered from that first moment of silence, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

"You must have remained the only publisher in the whole galaxy, perhaps, right? After all, who invests more in culture? A philanthropist ..."

Writer looked down on Publisher, with a look that clearly didn’t call him a man of culture.

"... Or a fool".

Publisher was silent for a moment: Counter could feel the electricity between the two. A tension that had something strange. What would have been called chemistry. Publisher then smiled, taking a step closer to the writer.

"They must have called me Fool Rick then."

Writer moved his eyes carefully, those looks and smiles had nothing to do with signing a contract.

Sitting between those two fires, Counter felt himself dying: the meeting table, despite being huge, seemed smaller and smaller. He was in the middle, crushed, struck by his mistake that had not paid off his kindness in presenting an excellent publishing house to Writer.

More than an agreement to transfer copyrights, it seemed like a struggle to go to bed togheter as quickly as possible.

"2%? If I wanted to work for jackals, I would go to Kryptek9. "

Publisher smiled, his face resting on the back of his hands, entwined.

“We remain low as the first market investigation. Investing in new authors is something that is done gradually. "

Writer narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth without being able to believe his ears. _New_... authors? But who the fuck did he think he was? Did he have a vague idea of who he was?

The writer glanced at Counter, a little accusation towards the jerk from which he had brought him, a little outburst. He loosened his folded arms, leaning slightly on the table, still outraged and offended by the way he addressed him and the way he called him.

"I would say that _new_ is a term that can no longer be said to me for quite a while ..."

"Oh yes, I know. Interdimensional prize for human rights in the literary field; Rick member of the Citadel Cultural Council before his cancellation; winner of the Intergalactic Literature Award for four consecutive years; Essay bestsellers on Mortys’ rights and the study of the relationship between us and them" the way he pronounced the word _them_ gave shivers to Writer, who tried not to notice "and I could obviously go on for several minutes, surely losing some prestigious academic and popular recognition".

Publisher continued to keep that smile on his face that was beginning to really get on Writer's nerves, who returned to cross his arms, back again on the chair. He stared at him for a long time, moving his eyes into hims, studying him. That was a fucking shark. Why hadn't he found an agent yet to put those bureaucratic problems on? Oh right, his hatred for people ...

There was an unsaid, a but that hovered in the room and that Publisher was waiting to pull out, in an effect pause.

"But..."

Exactly.

"... one of the most honored writers of the galaxies has no publishing house that wants to publish him".

Writer felt an annoying shiver run down his back, suddenly feeling uncomfortable on that chair. Counter also held his breath. They both knew where he was going to fend off. Maybe at least Publisher would have been honest enough to say it out loud, instead of a kind and polite refusal. After all, he was a Rick.

"Unfortunately the hypocritical respectability due to that scandal has not subsided, apparently ..."

Publisher stared at Writer, as Counter did, in tension. The writer did not manifest his reactions in any way, keeping his face intact, rigid. Inside, the motions of hell stirred relentlessly.

Check mate. He managed the game.

And so the negotiation.

Writer knew well that in addition to his talents, he had little else to put on the plate: publishing him was a gamble. His sales had obviously peaked at the height of the scandal, but after that they had collapsed and the absence of new books had not made things easier. If Writer still managed to keep his expenses, it was for the authorial rights he received every year: nothing else. He was not in a position to negotiate.

He clenched his jaw and a tense movement shook his cheeks: frustration and anger flowed through his veins like blood. Yet another Rick, yet another fucking business man in front of which to lower his head, only to be free to write, only for ...

The truth is that the possibility of being published did not preclude the possibility of writing. He could still do it if he wanted. He could write for himself. So why was the possibility of being read so important?

Publisher read his internal movements and internal struggles in the writer's eyes, his face still leaning on one hand: it was as if he were enjoying a show that only he knew, without Writer's knowledge. But not Counter. Counter knew that smile well and what it meant.

"... fortunately I like risks."

Writer looked up at him, frowning. Publisher didn't take his eyes off him, meaning everything and nothing with that phrase.

“And I talked about the _first_ market investigation. The highest costs will be for the purpose of advertising the book as much as possible; we'll have to do a big media campaign to sponsor your return. All the other percentages, those of the publishing house included, will remain low: from the second book, we will revise the contracts and rights, totally ".

Counter was taking notes, but he already understood Publisher's strategy: risk yes, commit suicide no.

Publisher smiled, a smile that was almost an amused grin, of someone who knew what he was doing and had no problem underlining it.

"I'm fool, but not stupid."

All three knew that even without Writer's verbal assent, who did not arrive in fact, the meeting was concluded and the negotiation established. Counter began to speak, reading the draft contract to the writer, while the Boss got up to make a more distant phone call, with one hand in his pocket.

Writer stared at the sheet Counter held in his hand, while the accountant stared at him apprehensively, reciting a text he knew by heart.

Writer threw the glass of coffee into the bucket, more relaxed than at the end of the meeting: he had relaxed with Counter, also talking about the old school days. Both were relieved to have left from there, it was a job that did not gratify anyone and whose rules were certainly not made for them.

“And then that fucking gym teacher. I think the most disturbing thing I've ever seen ... "

Writer shivered and Counter laughed nervously: the man had no idea that the Rick would also have an interview there at Stuttering, the following day. Counter could not resist prayers, he was too soft.

Writer sighed, finally relaxed.

"Thanks, Counter."

Counter was taken aback by those words: Writer never exposed himself, neither in the negative nor in the positive. Nor had he ever heard him thank anyone with that sincerity. The accountant blushed slightly, trying in every way possible to refrain from showing his agitation, in front of that smile so different from the usual.

"Thanks for the opportunity".

Writer was the first to know that Counter had indeed brought a juicy prey (in every sense) to Stuttering Books, but that he had also exposed himself: his figure was a double-edged sword, which could also bring a bad reputation on an entire company.

Before Publisher, Counter had also risked on him, putting himself on the front line. That was not something he could ever forget.

Fame surrounds you with millions of people, but it is when you are in the ashes, alone, that outstretched hands become life.

Counter could not even stammer a _your welcome_ , his throat choked by the billions of words that pressed to go out, all together, crossing over his mouth and preventing him from speaking. In that, he understood the Mortys perfectly: stuttering was castrating, disabling, a handicap that prevented him from fully expressing himself, revealing everything he had inside, hidden and trapped. That was the perfect occasion, the one on which Writer was smiling at him, so close and sincere.

And he couldn't even say a _“_ _your welcome”_ _._

The writer put his hands in his pockets, before sighing, tired, interrupting the cloud of confessions and thoughts that invaded Counter's mind.

"I'm going ... I have to go find the documents you need to register the contract. And I have no idea where the hell they ended up, my house looks like a fucking archive. "

Writer chuckled and the words in Counter’s throat died again at the moment he tried to offer to help him. After all, he was a magician of the archives, and Writer's house was one of those who would have liked to know how to catalog even by heart.

Writer stepped forward, squeezing his arm in a silent greeting, one of his own, which needed few words. He raised his hand in greeting, before leaving, leaving Counter there, with his signature on the contract, the only thing left of him.

Rick was in front of the Stuttering Books, trying to put the keys in the motorcycle seat in order to take the helmet. Fuck, the little one had rusted to death: even just inserting them was a titanic effort. He sighed, before finally succeeding, but even the saddle resisted and the unbearable heat made all the efforts even more titanic.

"May I?"

Before Writer could turn around, a green-sleeve hand went to open the saddle with a dry, effortless gesture. Rick turned irritated, meeting Publisher's even more irritating smile and his sunglasses, which hid his eyes.

"Vintage, huh? They always have a certain effect. A bit like us, after all ".

The Boss chuckled, before Writer raised a corner of his mouth, annoyed, saying a cold thank you.

The writer took the helmet, running a hand through his hair to send them backwards; Publisher followed the movement of those fingers, before squaring him from top to bottom. If he thought Rick hadn't noticed, he was out of the way: he felt those eyes on him despite the dark lenses.

Rick put on his helmet, fastening it and glancing at Publisher.

"I can turn it on my own, if that's what you're waiting for."

"No, actually I was just thinking of ways to raise those annoyingly low percentages ..."

Publisher pretended to be thoughtful, drumming a finger over his mouth as Writer frowned. What? Had he already changed his mind?

He stared at the Boss, waiting for him to explain what he meant by that proposal which was like a bolt of lightning. Publisher smiled, confident again.

"Maybe a dinner could make them get up a bit ..."

Writer just widened his eyes: ... was he flirting? Was he inviting him out to dinner?

"... I’m more open-minded when I'm _satiated_."

Publisher took a step towards him and lifted his sunglasses. Writer almost said yes, automatically: those dark lenses had hidden two eyes of different colors all the time, one more beautiful than the other. He wasn't easily surprised by the eyes, he was the first to be aware that his eyes were also particularly beautiful. He could not help but find those of the other magnetic, in one way or another.

Evidently, Publisher revealed them at the right time, almost as another effect pause.

Like a mirror movement, Writer took a step towards him, noting how Publisher's smile widened, how he was aware of having already won. He didn't have to be used to losing.

"Fortunately, I'm not a greedy person."

Writer in turn smiled at him after answering, before lowering the helmet visor, turning and getting into the saddle, aware that, almost certainly, the other's gaze was directed towards his ass.

Slipping, he moved away from Stuttering Books, not knowing he would go back there hundreds of times.

To accept that invitation, however, he would take ten more.


End file.
